


Misericordia

by palavreado



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Gen, Gladiators, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavreado/pseuds/palavreado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein an angel and a demon behave accordingly for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misericordia

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this turned out to be a bit harder to write than I expected, but I still think it's passable, so I guess that's alright.

The stadium was loud, bustling with excitement. Then again, it was always like that. There was nothing better than indulging in spectacles of such a real and powerful manner. It was like going to the theatre, or to a concert. It was entertainment at its finest.

The main attractions on that particular day were three. All male, one with blonde, tousled curls who seemed like he’d never seen a sword in his life; one with slick, dark hair and vicious looking eyes and a third one, scared and shaking and looking ever so haggard at the edge of his seat. The first two men had volunteered. The third one had done nothing but worship the wrong god in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Finally, the highest authority spoke. A senator, this time. Unfortunately for him, the Emperor couldn’t possibly attend all the events at once. He was currently in Alexandria, having a nice chat with a rather promiscuous Queen. The senator waved his hand to ask for a moment of silence, in which the contestants should speak.

None of them said anything other than the necessary, “ _Morituri te salutamos_ ,” and the gates were slowly hoisted up.

The blonde one, Aziraphale, finally got a good look at his main opponent, the dark haired menace, Crowley. He frowned. Crowley replied with a condescending snarl, and if they had an audible conversation, instead of speaking with very eloquent looks, it would’ve sounded like this:

 _Don’t you dare._

 _Surely, you of all people will stop me?_

 _Flee while you can, demon._

 _Fleeing? Whatever for?_

The exchange took place in less than seconds, after which Aziraphale finally looked away in resignation and Crowley grinned from ear to ear.

Crowley, still grinning, unsheathed the only weapon he or any other contestant was allowed to have. The small metal dagger fit like an extension of his arm and he couldn’t help but whirl it around one last time before going for the kill.

Of course, the man’s soul wouldn’t be an addition to his superior’s collection in any way, nor would it get him any sort of commendation. Crowley simply liked doing this. It was stress relieving, it was _fun_. Fighting for fun, how deliciously human. Of course that’s not what he scribbled in his report when he handed it in to his superiors.

Metal hit metal again and again. The third party, the man without a name was surprisingly skilled. All the more challenging, really. The fought on.

As his opponent grew weary, the blockades he made got more pathetic by the second. There was a mixture of terror and sadness etched in his pleading eyes. They screamed for a mercy he knew he would never get.

And then the angel, the bloody angel had shifted from where he originally was, motionless and stoic and with a short, sharp, shock Crowley felt the dagger through his neck and saw clear blue eyes that said _Flee from this._

In the entire arena, you could’ve heard a pin drop.

With his arm on Crowley’s back, almost cradling the demon (or what was left of him), Aziraphale lay him on the ground gently, his perfect nails and most of his tunic soaking up the blood. Finally, he stood up and stared intently at the astonished man in front of him. His eyes betrayed no emotions except an eerie sense of serenity that would’ve made Greek sculptors and painters from all over kill to have him as a model. He pulled his dagger out of Crowley’s throat and raised it to his opponent, who instantly mimicked him in self defense. Still expressionless, he began the spar once again.

The battle raged for so long, yet every eye was watching anxiously, nervously, even, to see the outcome of the match. The Senator had stopped talking to his servants and was biting his lip at the edge of his chair.

Truth be told, Aziraphale could’ve won in record time; a collateral effect of training long and hard to protect an ineffable garden with questionable purpose, but he held his ground. He didn’t want to win; not against this particular Adversary.

And then his hand slipped, later it would’ve been speculated that it was because of the blood and the dagger flew way out of his range. He was cornered, with a knife held solidly against his chest. He didn’t move a centimetre even as the knife inched closer.

And then, from the crowd, there was a hand, flying upwards, palm facing the sky. A dozen hands, hundreds of hands. All of them saying the same thing.

 _Spare him._

The Senator, Aziraphale, and the man all looked around as the vast majority of the massive stadium held their arms up in a silent plea. The former finally raised his hand and pointed upwards with his thumb. The crowd grew even more still as all eyes turned to the blonde.

Aziraphale’s smile was positively blinding as he got hold of the dagger in front of him and pulled it towards him, making it complete the last few inches it was begging to move and piercing skin tissue, and muscle and heart. He fell to the ground, stone-cold.

The odd rustle of wings that followed was so soft, yet everyone heard it.


End file.
